


And all the thousand eyes of heaven were bright

by awenswords



Series: Voltron One-Shots [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Planet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sad, Stranded, i wrote this ages ago so the klance might be implied, stranded on an alien planet, thats just how it be sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-12 23:50:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15351528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awenswords/pseuds/awenswords
Summary: /// Amidst the pupil-black sand, boney white trees, writhing like maggots in each gust of stagnant wind, and twin moons (one large, like a mouth mid-scream, the other a small sliver, a deep-yet-thin slice, unassuming but deadly), they found a sort of peace. ///Keith and Lance are stranded on a strange, surreal planet. Earth becomes a distant memory. Through the years, they move from surviving to living, and this hellish planet becomes a sort of home.





	And all the thousand eyes of heaven were bright

Amidst the pupil-black sand, boney white trees, writhing like maggots in each gust of stagnant wind, and twin moons (one large, like a mouth mid-scream, the other a small sliver, a deep-yet-thin slice, unassuming but deadly), they found a sort of peace.

Sols have passed, weather changed, new seasons sprung up (there is no summer here, nor is there a spring. The white-wood trees are leafless, stabbing out from the dark sand bare and cold). Winter passes in a flurry of biting hail, sharp enough to pierce skin, clothing, and shoes. It does not melt until the heat begins, a furious shimmering wave that brings with it sticky humidity, bruise-yellow flowers, and thorns. Then, there is something akin to rain - molasses-slow drops, sliding down from a cloudy sky and melting into the hot sand. They quickly learned they had to collect it fast before the rain stopped and the heat truly set in - blistering, weighing them down. They fashioned a bowl from the skull of their first kill, a small furry animal, sickly purple and red. It was too stringy to eat, and to bitter. But the fur became hail-resistant shoes (so they would no longer step on the shards and walk around with bloodied feet) and the skull became a macabre bowl)

Now, they huddle in the house built between their lions, suspended over the hot-then-freezing sand, listening to the glassy hail.

The building began as shade against the heat and the rain, but nighttime animals became more vicious and they moved for higher ground, using bone-trees and weaving ivy. Animal pelts became beds, doors, curtains, and the place became a sort of home. Below, there's a fire pit, and somewhere in the house, their old armor rests, long-discarded. It would be too small to wear now anyways. They're relics of the past, a time that seems so far away now. Far enough away to be passing from memory, leaving behind the shadows of once-was and could-have-beens.

By now, Pidge's laugh has blurred, became unfamilar, difficult to recall. Lance can't quite remember Hunk's voice, nor can he place the shade of Allura's hair (was it white, or gray?).

Keith is the only constant. The only thing that his mind can summon with ease. Pure and detailed, every moment for the past near-decade, fresh and sharp. The only voice that he knows, the only smile that he can recgonize.

Some creature moans in pain, impaled below them by a freezing shard.

"I hear dinner," Lance says wryly.

At some point, angry silence melted into arguing, then crafted itself into an amicable quiet, elastic-tight tension, and fear of breaking the fragile peace. That became...whatever they have today. Camaraderie? 

Keith grimaces, "Be my guest and climb down there to fetch it."

Lance rolls his eyes, and the two fall back into the quiet. A comfortable quiet. It only took 2,347 Sols to get there. Of course, they don't know how long it's been.

It's a miracle they're still alive.

"How long," Lance begins, swallowing, "how long have we been here?"

Keith is torn between avoiding looking at Lance and avoiding looking at the hellish landscape that sprawls out around him: "A long time, Lance . . . a very long time."

"The seasons change so fast," Lance continues, "there's no way to track the years, is there? We should have paid more attention."

Through the roof above them, Lance can see the stars. Somewhere, out there, there's Earth (hopefully it's still there. Hopefully there isn't a hole in the universe where home once stood).

Lance leans back against the wall, his ankle brushing Keith's in a gesture that would once have sent them both into spiteful fits. Now, Keith shifts, tilting against Lance, slotting against him with an ease that comes from years of survival, years of being the only two people in this wasteland.

When the hail stops, night begins, the sky briefly stained a dark shade of crimson, the color of dried blood and scabs, before the sun sinks. The twin moons are bright against the darkness, illuminating the sky and washing out any color. Nighttime brings about a different sort of animal, although the once-Paladins have rarely seen it.

Large, twisted humanoids with stilted legs and gnarled faces, tall and pointed. They hunch over, weaving through the trees, spines and ribs visible beneath shifting translucent skins. Devilish horns errupting from where eyes should be. Lance and Keith killed one many Sols ago. It's skin blistered in the sunlight, burning, and the next night, mournful cries echoed through the pale forest, and more bodies rustled below them than before. In the morning, the body was gone. There are mountains in the distance, Lance has theorized that is where they come from - some sort of cave system within the stone. They emerge to hunt, leaving blood staining the white trees, scoring deep footprints in the sand.

Some nights, they do not emerge, or perhaps they hunt elsewhere. Keith stands, peering out a small window, examining the darkness for movement. It is still.

They relax for a moment, but a screeching, wailing sound startles them. The stilted creatures are hunting tonight.

So, Keith and Lance retreat into the Red Lion. It's the best protection, the thick metal barely worn from the weather, though it is strikingly cold. With them they bring swaths of furs, and they settle on the floor of the cockpit with their spears and knives. Despite settling into the planet, they're still on-edge. The product of a planet that lacks other sapients.

The Lion is long-dead. 

Dead.

Despite being metal-and-wires, the Lion was alive once. Stepping inside him is chilling. He's too still, too cold, lifeless. There is no humm of energy, no entity for Keith to reach out to. Red was once a sort of home for Keith, a comforting presence, a place where the adrenaline of battle left him feeling winded and well-rested. Back in the Castle of Lions, he spent many nights curled at his feet, speaking to him in their strange, semi-psychic way.

Now, even after years here, years with the dead hull of the Lion, years without contract with another person besides Lance, Red still sends a pang of sadness through him. The Lions were their last chance at escaping.

Somehow, the pain of that has faded. The idea of being stuck here forever (no, the knowledge that he will never leave) has blunted. No longer a strike to his chest, a deep twisting sadness in his gut. It's a dull ache, information pushed to the back of his mind.

Is this acceptance? He's okay with that.

Drifting asleep tangled against Lance, breathing in tandem, the moon's glow drifting through cracks in Red's hull, Keith thinks that maybe, this isn't too bad.

**Author's Note:**

> The Travelling Companion
> 
> Into the silence of the empty night  
> I went, and took my scorned heart with me,  
> And all the thousand eyes of heaven were bright;  
> But Sorrow came and led me back to thee.
> 
> I turned my weary eyes towards the sun,  
> Out of the leaden East like smoke came he.  
> I laughed and said, ‘ The night is past and done ’ ;  
> But sorrow came and led me back to thee.
> 
> I turned my face towards the rising moon,  
> Out of the south she came most sweet to see,  
> She smiled upon my eyes that loathed the noon ;  
> But sorrow came and led me back to thee.
> 
> I bent my eyes upon the summer land,  
> And all the painted fields were ripe for me,  
> And every flower nodded to my hand ;  
> But Sorrow came and led me back to thee.
> 
> O Love! O Sorrow! O desired Despair!  
> I turn my feet towards the boundless sea,  
> Into the dark I go and heed not where,  
> So that I come again at last to thee,
> 
> -Lord Alfred Douglas


End file.
